Reprieve

by A. E. Woodward

  I stare at my fingers, admiring my handy work. Why the hell would he care about my nails? It’s just nail polish. I just grabbed the first thing I saw. “Does it really matter?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  His questioning causes my whole body to tense. I turn my neck from side to side, attempting to crack the stiffness free. It does me no good. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for your cat and mouse games today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I look over at him with my forehead pinched. “Are you serious?” He knows exactly what I mean. I’ve made comments before about the fact that his inability to make statements drives me nuts. He smiles smugly and shrugs, not giving me an answer. Defeated, I sigh. “I’m just not in the mood for any of this today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it sucks. All of this sucks.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “No shit!” I bark back.

  Silent seconds pass between us before I feel like I’m ready to speak again. “Listen, I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.”

  “And I know this is hard, Tegan. I get where you’re coming from. Having me picking and prodding at you every day is frustrating, especially since you’re still in a really dark place.”

  “How do you know where I’m at?” I snap.

  “Because I’ve been there.”

  I swallow back my anger because it’s not for him. It’s for my situation. For having to be here when I really don’t know if I want to be. It’s for my family, for making me make a choice. It’s for everything.

  Except Asher. He cares. “Does it ever really go away? Like really, really.” I ask knowing full well what I’m getting at. He understands. He gets it on a level that not a lot of people do and I want to know his innermost thoughts about it. I want the truth—not a bunch of psychobabble bullshit.

  He places his hand gently on my shoulder as we continue to walk through the lush green grass. “There’s always going to be darkness. Some days will be darker than others, but it’s during those days that you need to focus on the light. The good in life is what keeps you focused and, most importantly, clean.”

  I understand what he’s saying. It seems simple enough: think about the positive, forget the negative. But for me, it feels impossible. I have nothing. All my relationships have been ruined. I’m afraid that I have nothing left to go back to.

  “And what if I don’t have any good in life?” My voice quivers as I ask the question and I do my best to focus on the serene scene before me because if I think about it too much, I might crumble.

  I feel his hand against the small of my back, his touch snapping me from my focus. I turn to him but he’s not looking at me; he just continues staring out at the horizon. Moments that feel longer than they should pass before he takes a deep breath and turns toward me. Our eyes meet, and his face is full of seriousness.

  “You find it.”

  HEROIN WAS MY entrance to Hell.

  Hell was here on earth.

  I knew this because I walked the sidewalks of it day in, day out, always looking for a way to score my next hit. Preventing myself from getting dope sick. Searching for a way to numb the pain hidden deep within the depths of my soul.

  I always kept my eyes down. I pretended it was because I liked to avoid stepping on cracks but, really, I didn’t want to look up. Not only did it scare me, but when I looked up I realized how far I had fallen.

  This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be like. This wasn’t what I dreamed of as a little girl. It definitely wasn’t what my family wanted for me.

  My thoughts were broken when someone slammed their body against mine, knocking my water bottle from my hand. I glanced up quickly, seeing a woman wrapped in a dark blanket glaring back at me. Her hair was matted together, her skin stark white beneath the grime, dirt caked around parts of her body. She stands awkwardly and I notice she has no shoes on her feet, the skin around her dirty toes cracked and blistered to the point that they were bleeding. “Watch where you’re fuckin’ going,” she spat at me, pushing her way past and continuing down the sidewalk. I watched her walk away, my eyes glued to her back before my eyes fell back to the ground.

  I was rattled. Being more conscientious and aware of keeping to my own space, I continued walking toward my destination.

  Two more blocks.

  Just two more blocks.

  Two more blocks and then everything would be okay.

  Again.

  For a little while.

  The sidewalk opened up and the air around me warmed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some men, standing around a trashcan fire. I could feel their eyes on me as I walked past, their lewd comments making my heart race at the same time as my skin crawled and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My skin instantly peppered with goose bumps. They were looking for trouble, that much was obvious, so I picked up the pace.

  One more block.

  I tiptoed in between the cracks, focusing on something I could control, hoping to take my mind off the dangers I knew surrounded me. In any given moment my life could be in danger: drug deals gone bad, a gun shot, a knife fight, rape—I’d seen it all. I was no idiot. I was fully aware of the troubles that lurked in the shadows of the city.

  A heroin addict, yes.

  A moron, no.

  Turning the familiar corner I hurried down the dark alley, despite every nerve ending in my body urging me to go the other way. I ignored my senses and continued on. I needed to. I had to. My hit was down that alleyway. Just a little bit further.

  Landing in front of the broken down door, I reached up and knocked with a ferocity born of panic and pure desperation. The voice from within told me to come inside and, without hesitation, I did.

  “You again,” the familiar voice said without any inflection or tone.

  “I told you I needed more than you gave me.” I barely recognized my own voice. It sounded faint, and weak—like death was right around the corner.

  It possibly was.

  He cleared his throat and stood up from the dingy couch in the far corner, the faint light from the lone lamp illuminating the harsh angles of his face. No matter how many times I’d been here, I never got used to his presence. He intimidated me—mostly because of his unpredictability. Not knowing what I was walking into meant I could never adequately prepare. It was a never-ending cycle and I just decided to always expect the worse. I cowered back as he came closer to me.

  “What do you have?”

  “Twenty bucks.” I held out my hand, showing him the wadded up bill I’d managed to score from selling a stolen watch. He took the money before I could move an inch, reaching into his pocket before holding out a small bag for me.

  Only a nickel.

  It wasn’t going to be enough to get me through the night, but I snatched it from his hand and spun around on my heels, wanting to get out of there fast. I only managed a couple of steps before I felt my body jerk to a stop and hitch backwards. A sharp pain ran down my arm and I looked down to see his fingers wrapped tightly around my bicep. I should have felt panic, but I didn’t. I couldn’t muster enough love for myself to worry about something happening. Every time something bad happened to me, it gave me hope that this was it. That this was going to be the time my pain ended for good.

  “A nickel costs more than ten bucks.” His eyes scanned my body. “You know that.”

  My eyes fell to the ground. He was right—I did know that. I was just hoping he’d let it go, that my loyalty to him was going to be enough. That he’d make me pay double next time. But I wasn’t that lucky, at least, not tonight.

  “I know.”

  “You didn’t honestly think I was just going to let you make off with a nickel for half price, did you?”

  Silence.

  “You’ve got to start using your brain a little bit more or you’re going to wind up dead.”

  That’s the idea.

  As I remained still the tightness round my arm disap
peared and he began a slow walk around me, assessing me from all angles. “So . . . how do you suggest you make this up to me?” I shrugged. I knew what he was insinuating. He’d been playing cat and mouse with me long enough. I knew the drill.

  “Dunno.”

  He pulled me closer. “I call bullshit,” he hissed through his teeth, droplets of venom landing on my cheeks. “You know exactly how this works.”

  I reached up and wiped my face clean. “I’m really not in the mood to play your games tonight. Just tell me what you want.”

  His hand moved from my arm to the top of my shoulder, his other mirrored his left as a wicked grin spread across his face and he gently pushed me down. I pushed back, trying to remain upright but he simply increased the force until my knees buckled under the pressure and I stumbled.

  “What the fuck?”

  He pushed harder and laughed. “I want you on your knees.”

  I considered fighting back but there was no use. He’d get what he wanted one way or another. And if there was one thing I’d learned from dealing with him, it was easier to not fight it. Besides, it would take less time if I just complied and moved along with my night. I really wanted that hit. I needed it.

  My legs buckled beneath me and I dropped; the cold, hard floor unyielding on my knees, the chill made its way through every fiber of my being as I listened to him slacken off his belt before collapsing back onto the couch. He leaned backward, pressing his shoulders against the cushion. I shuffled forward so that I could reach him.

  My hands shook as I fumbled with his pants. I’d imagine a normal person would be shaking with fear, but not me. My hands shook because I was approaching my witching hour. It had been too long since my last hit.

  I slowly moved the zipper downward, unhitching his pants from his hips and pulling down the waistband of his underwear, allowing me access to all of him. This was not a new situation. By now, I was very familiar with his body. That didn’t make it any easier. It wasn’t a comforting thing like I imagined a relationship would be. It was controlling, clinical.

  Once he was free, I took him into my mouth and he groaned loudly, grabbing roughly at the sides of my head, holding me in place. His breathing deepened as I moved myself up the length of him. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare bite me this time, bitch.” His voice was a low growl and the words came out stilted, the strain in his tone obvious. He was enjoying himself but still didn’t waste an opportunity to let me know who was boss. I laughed to myself as I thought about the last time I’d found myself in this same precarious position. I’d been particularly ornery that day, my anger getting the better of me as I’d sank my teeth into his delicate skin, using all the pressure I could muster I managed to hang on until his fist connected with my temple, knocking me to the ground. He’d roughed me up and blacked my eye, but the satisfaction that came with it was worth every second of discomfort.

  I closed my eyes, trying to imagine this was some kind of act of lust rather than yet another business transaction as I wrapped my mouth tightly around his dick, my tongue playfully teasing the underside of him. I’d lost count of how many times I’ve gone through this, and a part of me wished I could go back to that first time I went down on a boy. Back then it seemed so cool. There was something thrilling about being in complete control. I never thought that blowjobs could ever be anything but fun, but now it just felt like something I had to do in order to exist. A necessary evil, of sorts.

  My head bobbed back and forth, the pace quickening with each stroke. I needed this to be over. His fingers tightened painfully in my hair, pulling at the roots, forcing himself into my mouth.

  I should have felt ashamed. I should have felt used, abused, wronged. But I didn’t because all I could think about was the hit I needed.

  The hit I craved.

  This was not it.

  My hand tightened around the plastic bag that was in my hand as I continued to pull and tug against him with my mouth. The moaning above me grew louder, his thrusts harder but shorter, and I knew that it wasn’t going to be much longer. I knew his tells. Once he started making noises it was only a matter of time before it was over.

  Hopefully just like my life would be.

  MY LEG BOUNCES UP and down, my pants rubbing against the leather chair, creating static as it squeaks. The noise is amplified, or at least it seems to be. Asher tells me that it’s just because I’m actually hearing things as I should now. My head is clear, so sounds are too. Without being shrouded by the heroin, things seem different. He assures me I’ll get used to it. I’m not so sure.

  “You seem nervous today.”

  His voice cuts through the quiet and I shake my head, my attention returning to him. Nervous isn’t the word. “I’m calm.”

  “Well, what’s with the fidgets? The daydreaming?”

  “I guess I’m just unsettled.”

  “How so?”

  “I dunno. I can’t explain it.”

  “Try.”

  I roll my eyes and he chuckles under his breath. It’s smug and I glare at him. He covers his mouth, hiding his smirk before removing it completely. “You know it really will make you feel better to talk about what’s going on up here.” He taps his temple. “I know I say it over and over. I just keep hoping that one of these days you’ll actually believe it.”

  I groan, the corner of my mouth turning upright. Our relationship has developed over the weeks I’ve been in here. I’m less guarded now. More playful. “You’re right. You do have to say that same line a lot.”

  “Way too much,” he quips.

  And just like that, I start to talk. “I guess I just feel like I’m here, doing the work, but that things really aren’t any different.”

  “Are you unhappy?”

  “No. That’s not it at all. It just feels like I’m still living without a reason.”

  He sits back in his chair and makes himself comfortable, lifting his ankle and resting it across his thigh, his knee dropping out to the side. His body language is open. Apparently that makes him more “approachable” but I’m still not convinced. Pondering my words, he lifts his hand and runs the backs of his fingers against his day-old stubble, I know it’s day-old because he was clean-shaven yesterday. In the silent room, the noise of his scruff causes my skin to crawl. It’s almost as bad as nails on a chalkboard. “It’s hard work and it takes time. You can’t rush recovery.”

  Deep down I know he’s right, but a part of me wants more. I can’t explain it any better so in lieu of words I let out a heavy sigh and look around the room. Its plain walls aren’t decorated and the furniture inside of it isn’t anything of note. Asher allows me to sit in silence. I like that about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill time with meaningless conversation. Every word he and I utter to each other helps me understand one more thing about this process.

  Growing bored with my silence, I look over to where Asher sits stoically in his chair. He smiles at me, much like I imagine a friend would and I realize that I feel at ease with him. I watch him as he lifts his glass of water off the table and takes slow sip. His movements are all fluid, precise. There is no evidence that he was once where I am. That helps me. “Okay, I’ve got to ask. What’s the deal with the muscles?” The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think.

  He chokes on his water, sputtering through his own laughter.

  I feel good knowing he’s laughing and not offended by my question. It could have been a bad move on my part, but in that moment I had felt like it was an okay thing to do. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt. But you . . . you just . . . you don’t look like a typical ‘drug counselor.’” I wiggle my fingers around the words. I’m not exactly sure what a typical drug counselor looks like but when I think about it, the image of Asher definitely doesn’t pop into my head. With his rippling muscles, rugged face, and brutish good looks, he belongs someplace else; perhaps an underground fight club, I don’t know. But sitting across from me in rehab is definitely not the place I would p
ick for him.

  “It’s no worry,” he says, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “You just took me by surprise.” The room is silent again for a moment, and even that sounds loud until he clears his throat. “I definitely wasn’t expecting that from you.” He takes a deep breath before continuing with his thought.

  “You know, addicts crave something to obsess over. It’s what makes them addicts. Their addictive personality is always the underlying issue. They want something to consume their mind, but mostly they just need something to divert the attention away from the real problem. Once any addict realizes that, they can find alternatives to the dangerous lifestyle they’ve chosen. For me, I stopped putting shit up my nose and picked up weights.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. He always makes it sound so simple. I’m not completely sold on that idea of it being that easy, but I sure as hell wish it could be. “How do you find an alternative?” I ask, jotting a note down in my notebook. Replace the heroin. “Like, how do you know what it is?”

  “I can’t tell you how to find your alternative. It just happens.” I close my notebook and sigh. “Not the answer you were looking for?” he asks.

  “Definitely not.”

  “This isn’t easy. If it were, there wouldn’t be any addicts. It’s hard work. There is no easy answer. There is no one who can say, ‘Do this and you’ll be fixed.’ You have to figure that out for yourself.”

  “Then why am I here?” My question comes out as more of a statement. The atmosphere in the room as changed. We are no longer playful, our lighthearted banter already a far away memory. “Why are you even talking to me?”

  “You’re here for guidance, not definitive answers. And that’s where I come in.”

  Frustrated, I slam my notebook into my lap. “Then guide me,” I say sharply.

  He reaches across the space between us and takes my hand in his. My eyes fall onto the place where our bodies are now connected. His hand envelopes mine and the warmth rushes up my arm and spreads through my chest until it reaches my heart, the pulsation quickening and a lump forms in my throat. I look back up at him. His eyes are focused on me, and I can feel the heat climb up my chest, spreading across my cheeks.